


A Lot Like Riding a Bicycle

by Winnie_Chester



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Hurt Dean Winchester, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Stitches, Unrequited Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-10
Updated: 2014-11-10
Packaged: 2018-02-24 19:28:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2593553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Winnie_Chester/pseuds/Winnie_Chester
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set very early in season one. Sam has a little panic attack the first time he has to stitch Dean back up after a hunt, post-Stanford.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Lot Like Riding a Bicycle

Dean was passed out and bleeding in the passenger seat and Sam was driving, trying very hard not to come the fuck apart. Dean unconscious and injured was one of Sam’s very least favorite versions, and the one that completely undid him the most. It brought back a lifetime of fears, of school nights spent by himself in motel rooms worrying that the door wouldn’t open again, worrying he’d wake up and still be alone. 

It had never happened, thank God, Dad had always returned Dean to him, but usually in worse condition than his brother had been in when he’d left. It was one of the many things Sam hated his father for.

But this, tonight, was Sam’s fault. Sam had been the one backing Dean up, and Sam was the one who hadn’t gotten to his brother quickly enough to stop whatever it was—seemed unlikely it was the ghost they’d been so sure about-- from slashing him to fucking threads. 

Sam gripped the wheel tighter, willing the Impala to get to the motel faster, and tried not to notice that his hands were red and sticky with Dean’s blood. He tried to calm down, slow his breathing. He couldn’t put Dean together if he was in fucking pieces himself.

The rational part of his brain knew this was an emergency, but it wasn’t an _emergency_ emergency. Sam could handle this, he’d stitched Dean up dozens of times, Dad too. And Dean had lost blood, lots of blood, but he wasn’t in mortal danger. _So get it the fuck together._

The thing was, Sam hadn’t had to play field medic in years. Seeing Dean like this had always felt like the world was ending, but Sam hadn’t experienced it since he left for Stanford, where he’d always done his very best to picture Dean animated and happy, and never slumped against the window all pale and gray. If Sam had let that image cross his mind even once he’d have been back immediately. So he was out of practice.

 _Calm the fuck down, right now._ He willed his pulse to stop racing, slowed his breath. 

Finally Sam saw the motel lights and pulled in, had gotten their room's door open almost before the car had stopped moving. 

He carefully opened the side door and braced his brother so he wouldn’t slide onto the ground.

“Hey, Dean, you with me?” He slapped his brother’s cheeks lightly. Getting Dean inside would go a lot more quickly with his cooperation. Dean blinked at him, blurrily.

“’Mm okay, Sammy? You okay?” 

“Gonna get you inside and stitched up, okay?” Sam answered with a lightness he didn't feel. He didn’t give Dean a chance to respond, just pulled him out of car and ducked under his brother's good arm, grateful when Dean managed to take some of his own weight. Dean hissed, but remained conscious. 

Sam tried to breath through his nose, tried not to notice how the scent of blood completely masked the scent of leather and cheap soap and Dean.

He pulled Dean into the bathroom, sat him down on the lid of the toilet and removed the bandana he’d tied around his brother’s arm when he’d first found him and replaced it with a clean towel. It wasn’t the only gash Dean had suffered, but it was the one Sam had been most concerned about, the one that had been bleeding the most. Of course, in his panic he’d gotten them out of there so fast he hadn’t really taken the time to do a full inventory. 

“I’m going to take off your clothes okay? And cut this shirt off.” Sam tugged at his brother jeans. 

“You sure do want to get in my pants, don’t you?” Dean cracked, weakly. Sam swallowed hard, pretended that hadn’t hit frighteningly close to home. At least it confirmed Dean continued to have no fucking idea.

Sam lurched to his feet. “I’m gonna go get the kit. Keep putting pressure on that. Don’t pass out again and hit your head.”

“I don’t pass out,” he heard his brother call after him indignantly as he went to retrieve the kit and the bottle of whiskey from the backseat of the car. Sam took some deep breaths. 

True to his word, Dean had not passed out when Sam returned, but he was leaning more heavily against the bathroom wall, sweating. 

Sam washed his hands then dug the scissors out of the kit and cut away the rest of Dean’s shirt, revealing nothing else that seemed deep enough to need stitches. At least, Dean wouldn’t think so. Sam ran his hands down his brother’s sides, checking for broken ribs and tried very hard not to realize this was the first time in years he’d let himself touch Dean like this. It was the first time he’d really allowed himself to look at Dean’s chest since he’d been back, too. He’d become a master at averting his eyes, or looking the other way when Dean changed, got out of the shower. It wasn’t really helping, but at least he was trying. 

“Just stitches, I think.” Sam dug around in the bag for the needle and floss.

“Told you I’m fine.” Dean’s eyes were closed now, but he was still holding the towel tightly against his bicep. 

“Trade ya?” Sam handed Dean the whiskey and a couple of pain killers and then slowly peeled the towel back. Dean’s breath hitched. His arm had been sliced open, deeply from almost shoulder to elbow, and for a minute Sam was, again, second guessing his choice to stitch it up himself instead of taking his brother to the ER like a normal person. 

“Just fucking do it, Sammy.” It was a miracle that Dean could only read his mind half the time. Eyes still closed, Dean handed back the whiskey and Sam poured it over all the tools, and then Dean’s arm. That elicited just about every swear word Dean knew, and for a moment Sam thought Dean would pass out again, but instead he somehow managed to breath through it. Sam stitched him up as quickly and gently as he could. He was shocked that his hands didn’t shake. 

It turns out, stitching up your brother was a lot like riding a bicycle. 

Sam covered the stitches with antibiotic ointment and gauze, and then quickly cleaned and bound all the rest. Dean hissed and swore and gritted his teeth, but mostly seemed content to let Sam work in silence. Sam ignored the urge to pet his brother’s hair soothingly, to press his lips against his forehead. 

“Okay, all done.” 

Dean opened his eyes, looked at Sam’s handiwork. “Turned me into a mummy, eh kid?” 

Sam washed his hands, tried not notice how pink the water was going down the drain. He turned back to his brother, who was very slowly standing up. Sam moved towards him, but Dean waved him away.

“I’m fine, I’m fine.” Sam hovered anyway, afraid he’d fall. Dean’s “I’m fine” could never be reliably interpreted to guarantee anything more than “I am currently able to form a two word sentence.” Dean collapsed onto Sam’s bed, heavily, face first. 

“Do you want something clean to sleep in?” Sam reached into Dean’s bag, pulled out a t-shirt. 

“Leave me alone, I’m asleep Sammy.” 

Sam grabbed the extra blanket from the closet and threw it on top of his brother before going back outside to grab the rest of the gear from the car. He felt the adrenaline slowly leaching from his system. He felt shaky, felt the panic he’d tamped down earlier well back up. 

He put both hands on the hood and leaned against it, trying to ground himself, slow his breathing. 

He hadn’t even come close to losing Dean tonight, not really, and yet he still could barely keep it together. How the hell was he going to do this? If twenty stitches sent him in a tailspin, how was he going to react when there was a real emergency? 

It was just—Dean was his everything. Dean had always been his everything, but ever since Sam had been back his entire world had telescoped down entirely to Dean. It was even worse than it had been before he'd left. And after Jess and everything he just, he couldn’t lose him. 

And it wasn’t even about the—the other thing Sam tried not to name—it was that he would be quite literally completely lost without his brother.

Fuck, he had to— _had_ to do better. Sam straightened, tightened his shoulders. He wouldn’t do this again. He’d get it the fuck together so that he’d never have to know what losing Dean felt like. 

Deep down, he knew he wouldn’t know for long, if it did come to that. Their job was important, Sam knew that, but Sam could barely withstand being in this word with Dean, and he knew he wouldn’t be able to do so at all, without him. 

Dean was a rock. He was, and had always been, Sam’s rock. Through every move, through every hunt, Dean could be counted on and trust and always, forever, there. It was probably why Sam had fallen in love with him. 

Sam might be drowning, but he needed that fucking rock. 

Sam picked up the bag and walked back inside.

He wouldn’t freak out again.


End file.
